Stella

In time, we will be nothing but a speck of dust, Buried in the ground, for others to tread upon Leaving a footprint that’ll haunt the living The beauty of life is that print we leave.

Father, Transform her from dust to dove. Release her into the wind. She’ll soar gracefully, through the valley of death

Transform her from dove to angel Heaven has no windows, yet she sees God, As clearly as a neonate opens their eyes for the first time to behold her parent. And she will know peace like never before —the kind the world she left behind could only imagine.

Dearest Stella.

1963 – 2018 .

The disappearing act

When I first saw you, I thought you were beautiful. Tall, tanned, Indian. And  I looked like me, awkward, weird. But I knew it was you I wanted. The most brilliant mind in our year. I wanted to pick your brain, even if you wouldn’t look me in my eyes, even if your lips wouldn’t linger on mine, I was infatuated with your mind.

on a winter’s night. I  wore my converse, and nearly not enough makeup, to the solstice ball with all arrays of fair beauties with rosy cheeks and bodycon dresses.

“This is lame,” I thought; leaning on the wall, nursing my gin and tonic, watching folks reveling. Amid that dim neon florescent hall, I recognized you in a navy suit.

I recall how suave you looked. I remember an intense current course through me like never before. I stopped thinking. If I didn’t; I would inevitably convince myself how terrible the idea was. I downed my drink, hauling myself from the wall, then I met you at your heel.

I was jittery when I yelled;

“do you want to dance with me?, you lowered your ear close to me on my ground, so I repeated it. You said, “okay”.

I began to move my heels, then my hips. I closed my eyes so I would feel the music. I took an ephemeral moment to contain myself, the man of my dreams dancing with me, and when I opened my eyes, you were gone.

I wish I could say I didn’t expect it. I wish I had disappeared instead.

White Noise

Don’t take this the wrong way

but who do you think you are?

You serenade me with a golden harp

yet bind my hands and feet.

You torture me,

My screams fall on deaf ears

You manipulated me in the times I trusted you.

and judge my existence with every breath I expire.

You delude yourself with illusions of control

and when I ask why,

you imagine that I’m besotted with you

I grow mundane of righteously defending my honor.

 

 

Don’t take me for a fool

I cannot be what you want me to  be

I will not cut myself  before you believe I bleed

You will not sit on your high  horse

and watch me grovel for attention

My self-esteem—

my free will must  erode your ego

and as sure as the sun shines,

nothing can hide forever.

 

 

You say we are similar

I think like charcoal and diamond.

Everyone on social media believes your facade

Today I pen the truth, the first and last time

unearthing a love story that never was

Never again will I be startled by your white noise

for what does a sociopath have in common with an alexithymic?

 

The Shrine

Her hips sway to the beat of the banjo

Skylight filters through thatch roof

The flicker of light on a solemn night

A hue of blue shades her face

Her pelvis wines

In the center of the shrine.

 

 

The audience watch keenly

Such mastery,

Such art

From a beautifully dangerous woman

Like foreplay for their eyes.

Their unduly gander, in turn, solaced her.

 

 

She calms herself with each exhale

Invoking a fire

Attuned to her chakras.

This dance was passed down

Her grandmother to her mother,

Through generations

It was dubbed;

“the puppet and the serpent,”

For it reached into each heart

Those stubborn, frivolous hearts

Becharming them to her will.

 

 

 

Her body twists aggressively

as though strings attach to her

the one thing she excelled at,

it called to her

unlike the job she so dreaded

so society wouldn’t label her, a trollop

because people are threatened by anyone outside the box.

 

 

Each evening,

she polished her pearls

she donned her shawl

she’d burn the incent

and step barefoot into the shrine.

 

 

Night after night,

her lovelies would pour in

this was where she was meant to be

because even if the world passed away,

this was the one place she reigned as god.